


A deconstructed ménage à trois

by Baryshnikov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Consensual Infidelity, Drinking, Exhibitionism, F/M, Head Auror Harry Potter, M/M, Ministry of Magic Employee Tom Riddle, Open Marriage, Power Dynamics, Quidditch Player Ginny Weasley, Sexual Content, Theatre, Threesome - F/M/M, Timeline What Timeline, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:08:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26397685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Harry and Ginny are having an affair with the same person, and it's going fine—really it is—when Tom is in France, he belongs to Ginny, and when he's in England, he belongs to Harry—simple. It's only when they happen to meet that it all starts to look rather messy.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle/Ginny Weasley, Tom Riddle/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 14
Kudos: 86





	1. The Arrangement

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty different to what I usually write, but I wanted to try something new—so let's see how it goes.

By all accounts Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley were married too young. They loved each other, _that_ was undeniable, but they had also _only_ loved each other and it left them wanting for something a little _different_. 

Fortunately, a solution was easily enough obtained. They were married in name and at society events and at family functions; they were married when they were together, be it in London or Paris of New York, but as soon as they went their separate ways—back to the Department for Magical Law Enforcement in London for Harry, and the Quiberon Quidditch club in France for Ginny—the rules of their marriage became rather more… lenient. 

That was where Tom came in.

Ginny had met him at one of those ritzy French bars that was smeared with so much orange light that you’d be forgiven for mistaking it for a Rothko painting, and where everyone drinks dry cocktails and pretends that they’re in the movies. Tom had only been there because Rosier had gotten engaged the night before and was doing everything she could to forget the fact, and Ginny had only been there to celebrate with her team—apparently, they’d won the league. She’d had her hands under his shirt and his back up against the kitchen doors before Rosier was even tipsy. And perhaps it was needless to say he did not spend that night in Rosier’s fancy hotel room drinking commiseration cocktails and lamenting her future unhappiness. Rather, he spent it in a nice apartment on the edge of town, with his head pushed down between the thighs of the world’s most expensive quidditch player. 

Meeting Harry had been far more mundane. In fact, Harry met him only a week after Ginny, and during one of his brief ventures into the Ministry’s legal department—where Tom worked. He had been all in a rush whilst Tom had been lying oh-so casually, on the office Camelback, reading through the latest law report and loudly critiquing it to Lestrange as he made the tea. Harry had been late—when wasn't he?—and was trying to discuss an upcoming disciplinary hearing for one if his Aurors, while walking _and_ eating, but even so, it only took a glance. One glance, a brief conversation and a dinner date later, Tom had been lying on an entirely different sofa—a brown Chesterfield that did not suit the room—getting his cock sucked by the Head Auror; not that he was complaining. 

It hadn't been a one time thing for either of them, but all good things have to come to an end, and this slapdash attempt at a relationship ended after three months—when everyone realised what was going on. 

Tom had been the first to clock it—the day after he’d got back from Harry’s apartment. He’d mentioned it to Malfoy—because of course he had—and had had the prat throw the society pages in his face and tell him what a fucking idiot he was. Because, apparently, he was supposed to have realised that he’d basically had a deconstructed ménage à trois with the most famous couple in England. Malfoy hadn’t spoken to him for a week for that oversight. Ginny had been the next to work it out, when he turned up in one of Harry’s jackets complete with the Head Auror’s badge still in the pocket, and finally Harry—bless him—who had realised when he’d met Tom straight from him meeting Ginny and the smell of her perfume was, supposedly, all over him. 

There had been a long three-way phone call that night, though Tom hadn’t done much of the talking. 

The whole thing had started as an argument, though—in his favour—it was less about the fact _he_ was sleeping with both of them and more about the fact _they_ were both sleeping with _him_. But eventually between the two of them—and maybe a child custody lawyer—a harried arrangement had been crudely marked out; Harry would get him Monday to Thursday—the four days that Tom was working in London—and Ginny would get him Friday to Sunday, when he was free. The fact that he had his own apartment that he was paying rent on and would like to spend some time in, not to mention that he would have to spend a significant quantity of his life on the Eurostar and in taxicabs travelling between them, was duly noted and subsequently ignored. 

In the end it worked out that he’d stay at Harry’s flat Tuesday to Thursday, and on Thursday afternoon he’d go straight from work to the train station and catch the three-thirty train to Paris, followed by a taxi to Quiberon which usually took a total of seven and a half hours—give or take an hour’s worth of delays for spontaneous stupidity—and he’d get into Ginny’s at eleven. He’d stay at her place until Sunday afternoon when he’d repeat the journey in reverse and be back at his flat in time to grab a decent night’s sleep before starting work on Monday and beginning the routine all over again on Tuesday. 

And Rosier had the audacity to say that having a married couple would make it all so much easier.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a Friday night and by their usual arrangement—now formalised by a post-it note stuck on Harry’s fridge—Tom should have been at Ginny’s. He wasn’t; instead, he was standing in Harry’s bedroom pulling at his tie because Harry had requested permission to take him out for the evening. Like divorced a parent arranging their child’s birthday party, Harry had called Ginny, and then Ginny had called Harry, and finally Ginny had called him, and it had all been agreed.

Tom would accompany Harry to his charity theatre event and in return, Ginny would get to take him with her to the World Cup Qualifiers in Germany next month, which meant he was going to have to ask his boss a favour to give him the time off at such short notice. But, then again, _that_ was exactly what Harry was for, wasn’t it? More often than he cared to admit—at least to Harry’s face—Tom had managed to get Harry to bend the rules in his favour; it was easily done, especially when he found out how weak Harry was for an attractive young man making him feel useful.

This was also definitely far from the first time he’d accompanied Harry to some event or other; always under the pretext of fraternal companionship. A cover that had not yet been ruined despite Harry’s best efforts in bathroom stalls during numerous intervals; Tom had lost track of the number of times he’d been left with his eyes rolling back and his teeth embedded in the knuckle of his thumb as Harry did downright wicked things with his mouth—not much had changed there—all whilst there was a queue forming outside. He still had the bitemarks from last time—a fun little rendezvous at the British Aurors Awards and Commendations evening—to prove it.

Speak of the devil, a cold hand curled around his waist and pulled Tom back with enough force to make him almost lose his balance. _Almost_. Harry leaned in—without an apology, mind you—and just continued mouthing his way up Tom’s neck like an over-affectionate puppy; anyone else, Tom would have pushed off with little consideration for their feelings—thoughtfulness wasn’t exactly his thing—but Harry was just too bloody endearing to push away. 

And Harry knew that, didn’t he?

He knew that Tom (quite unfortunately) enjoyed being around him and even—dare he say it—that he _liked_ him quite a bit more than you were supposed to like someone who was married. But to give him credit, Harry didn’t mind. 

“You look great,” Harry murmured, as he watched his reflection in the wardrobe; his hands going everywhere they shouldn’t be. Though it was hardly satisfying when they never did anything more than gently _touching_ like a repressed seventeen-year-old lesbian, so overcome at the sight of a woman without her top on that she couldn’t do anything more than trace the silhouette with the tips of her fingers. 

“Like… really, _really_ great,” he continued, his chin resting on Tom’s shoulder as he pressed himself up against him. Tom just continued with his tie, after all, the fact that he looked ‘great’ was hardly news; he did possess a mirror and decent enough eyesight—unlike some people he could mention—to see himself in it. He was perfectly aware of the face he had and the things it made people do to get his attention—Harry knew that too, which was probably why he was gripping his waist quite so tightly.

Because Harry got jealous, though he’d never admit it. 

Regardless, Harry continued with his quest to basically feel him up; his hands sliding down his hips and dangerously close to his arse. But he wasn’t an idiot and Harry only got really touchy-feely when he was about to deliver bad news—it was why he insisted on clasping the shoulder of Aurors forced to go on leave and hugging those whose promotional exams didn’t work out. Personally, Tom wasn’t into it, but it was easier than trying to guess Harry’s mood all the time, so, for that reason, he tolerated it. 

It was when Harry worked his hands under his shirt that it became a problem. “What is it?” Tom said, not quite asking him to stop, but approaching it. 

“What is what?” Harry said, smiling innocently, his fingers working their way down and—unsuccessfully—under his waistband. Though, unlike his wife, Harry was so incredibly awful at lying that frankly, it was an embarrassment to be associated with him when he was trying. 

“Just tell me, Harry.”

Harry was silent and the smile was gone—replaced with his teeth chewing on his lip in the most obvious display of nerves he’d ever had to witness.  
“What is it?” Tom said, firmly now, as he stepped away from Harry’s hands and turned to face him properly because Harry was never this quiet unless he really didn’t want to tell him something—like the time he’d decided not to mention that he had gone caffeine-free after keeping Tom up for half the bloody night—to say that morning wasn’t fun was an understatement. “So?” he prompted. 

“Gin’s-going-to-be-there,” Harry said, all in a rush. 

“Excuse me?”

Harry had the decency to look apologetic, though it quickly passed into wretchedness, which was just sad like a puppy pleading for your sandwich. He looked down and back up again, his hand tapping on his thighs.  
“My wife… is… umm… going to be there… tonight,” Harry repeated evening, each word hesitant, “I thought… you know… that you should… know.” 

“Of course, I should know,” Tom said, “she’s your _wife_ and I’m your…” he faltered, there wasn’t quite a word he was willing to use to describe himself in this situation; Lestrange liked homewrecker, whilst Rosier preferred side piece, and Malfoy in all his vulgarity, considered him a toyboy. Needless to say, he didn’t discuss… whatever this was with them very much anymore. 

“You know what, it doesn’t matter,” he continued, “the point is—why am I going to be there if she is?” After all, his _entire_ purpose was to be the stand-in—escort, according to Rosier—when she wasn’t available. 

“Because—because,” Harry said, sounding flustered, “look—her game got postponed and I didn’t know she was coming until you were already invited.” 

“You could have uninvited me.”

“I didn’t want to be rude.”

Tom sighed and stared at Harry and his stupidly endearing face. This was already a more trying occasion than he needed it to be and now Harry had the audacity to be polite and courteous about it; for someone in charge of the entire Auror department Harry really was unbelievably _nice_ —how he ever managed to do his job was frankly a mystery.

“You’re still coming, though,” Harry said, his hand brushing over Tom’s waist and his tone suggesting that this was a non-negotiable matter—however much Tom was currently considering negotiating it. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Harry,” he said, “I’m not coming if your wife is going to be there.”

They’d never done that before. They both knew about him—obviously, they both knew—but it was one thing to be casually aware of the relationship your spouse is having, and quite another to have to witness it first-hand. Though that being said, there'd been several close calls, including one rather memorable occasion when Tom had stumbled out of a taxicab he'd shared with Ginny—enthusiastically, he might add, given how eager her mouth had been on his neck and her hands between his legs, all the way from Wembley Park to Parliament Square—and straight into Harry's employer-provided apartment.

For a brief moment, they'd all been there, Harry at the door of his building, Ginny leaning out of the taxi’s rolldown window and him somewhere in the middle; they'd looked at each other and looked at him and Tom could have wrung the tension out like it was one of those awful grapefruits Ginny insisted on eating as part of her breakfast. That had been the first time—and by no means the last—that Tom had seriously considered having both of them… at once.

The idea of it was so fucking intoxicating that it was a shame that it would never happen. He’d like to have the best bits of them both—Harry’s mouth and Ginny's hands. Harry’s arm wrapped around his waist and that godawful smile on his face and Ginny kissing his cheek and smiling at him like he was something special. Having Harry’s submissiveness and Ginny’s dominance all to himself. But for a whole host of reasons that wasn’t exactly a fantasy that he planned on sharing any time soon—which sucked, it really did—and so he had no intentions of having to spend the entire fucking evening looking at things he couldn’t have. 

"What if I gave you something, then?" Harry said, bringing him right back to the bedroom and the mirror and those cold hands sliding around his waist. 

"Bribery?” he said dryly, “I thought being the Head Auror meant you were above all that?"

And it was true. Ginny bought him nice things all the time: cologne, clothes, watches—anything to prove she owned him. She’d even bought him this suit, made him try it on and stand in front of her; though they both knew she'd purchased it, despite the obscene price tag, just so she could watch him squirm under her in it later; but that was beside the point. Harry on the other hand was less materialistic; he preferred to get his hands on him—on his back, on his waist, on his cock—and never take them off. _Oh_ , that was where this was going, wasn't it.

"Don't think of it as bribery," Harry said, one of his hands heavy on Tom’s hipbone and the other tracing over the buckle of his belt, "think of it as reimbursement." As he spoke, Harry sank slowly down to his knees—slowly because otherwise he’d do his knee in again and never hear the end of it, just like last time. 

For his part, Tom was pretty sure he was never, ever, going to get over having the Head Auror down on his knees for him. Harry’s hand’s touching at his thigh and his forehead pressed into the buckle of his belt and the heat of his tongue enough to get him reaching behind him for something to grasp—something to squeeze—because they were supposed to be leaving in five minutes and the only thing he could think about was getting his dick in Harry’s mouth, which was stupid given he wasn’t a teenager and this certainly wasn’t the first time Harry had got on his knees for him.

Tom swallowed. "So, I'm being bought now, am I?" he said, trying to keep all those syllables straight even as they squirmed around his mouth.

"I’m not _buying_ you," Harry said indignantly like he was trying to entice his step-child to call him ‘dad,’ before slipping his hand lower to wrap around Tom’s thigh, and pressing the flat of his tongue against the fold of Tom's zip. "I’m _persuading_ you."

Like that made it any better. 

“Sure—?” He swallowed; hating that crawling heat on the back of his neck and the churning in his stomach, “—sure that’s what you’re doing?” Tom said, one hand now grasped tight on the bedframe and the other coming to rest in Harry’s hair—it was so different like this—with Harry. When he was with Ginny, he was always the one on his knees or, in a case like this, the one on his back, her hand always pressed into his hip to stop him moving, while she took him deep enough to make him dizzy—because Ginny actually got things done and didn’t waste half the evening being a fucking tease. Unlike a certain someone, he wouldn’t mention. But, unlike his wife, Harry preferred to keep him on his feet, though Tom would be lying if he said looking at the Head Auror on his knees didn’t do something for him. 

“Sure,” Tom continued, “that you didn’t just want to—I don’t know—take advantage of the fact I’m all dressed up?”

He almost added, _before your wife does_ , before thinking better of it. When he was with Harry, they never talked about his wife, just saying her name was a rarity—Harry was probably ashamed, somewhere deep in his psyche, about how it all turned out—Ginny didn’t share such worries. With her _everything_ was a comparison—perhaps even a _competition_ —with her husband.

Harry didn’t take the bait; he just took his time. His hands undoing Tom’s belt and working his trousers open with all the speed and dexterity of a catatonic sloth, all whilst mouthing everywhere except where Tom wanted him to. Because now he was hard. Because he wanted it and, honestly, it was difficult not to when someone was doing things like that with their mouth— _especially_ when that someone was Harry. 

But if there was one thing that Tom wasn’t it was patient, especially when they had deadlines he didn’t care about. “If you’re going to do it; do it properly,” he hissed, tugging Harry forward by his hair—just the way he liked it—and shifting back onto his heels. “Otherwise, you’re going to make yourself late.” 

Not that it mattered to him if Harry was late. 

“So you’re still not coming?” Harry said, not even bothering to look up from what his hands were doing as they wrapped around his cock. 

He hummed a vague response because he was not going and even if he was, there were far more important things to think about right now than what was coming out of Harry’s mouth—for instances, what was going into it. Or rather what would be going in it, if Harry just hurried himself along a little. 

In a response, he really should have seen coming, Harry squeezed at the base of his dick just to get his attention and then had the audacity to graze his tongue over the head until every coherent thought Tom had ever had, became a pathetic mush and he pushed his hips forward in pitiable desperation.  
“What was that?” Harry said, the heat of his mouth threatening to take away the complete use of Tom’s legs. On the one hand, it was underhand and devious and more than a little mean, but on the other, Harry was doing all of this just to sway him—so maybe Tom was a little flattered. 

“Fine,” he said, trying, unsuccessfully, to balance the tone of acquiescence with breathing, “yes—I’ll come with you.”

Normally, Tom wouldn’t give in so easily—he’d wring every possible benefit out of Harry first—but this time, the positives of going definitely outweighed the negatives; decent theatre, getting to see the scandalised looks on Harry’s friend’s faces and, of course, Ginny would be there. Not to mention, they were already going to be late, so they might as well aim to make it tasteful instead of embarrassing—and they’d make it too if Harry would just get on with it. 

But Harry did not _get on with it_ , in fact, he fucking got up with such a casualness that you’d think he’d just been tying his shoe. “Great,” he said, “we’ll get going then—though I left my jacket somewhere—have you see it? I think I probably left it—"

“Excuse me for interrupting,” Tom said, more than a little irritable, “but weren’t you in the middle of something?”

Harry just smiled at him and patted his cheek like you would a particularly well-behaved dog. “Well,” he said, “we wouldn't want to wear you out before we even get there, now, would we?"

And with that, he just walked off to find his jacket; leaving him there in front of the mirror aching for it. The nerve. Quite frankly, Harry was lucky Tom was so attached to him—anyone one else pulling a stunt like that might have found themselves on the receiving end of something nasty straight away. Not that Harry was getting away with that—Tom just wasn’t going to get his retribution _now_ , rather, he was going to be patient, after all, he had all evening with him and his wife and there’d be ample opportunity to get him back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I wrote far too much for this chapter and had to split it up.

They were still fucking late.

The only good thing about it was that by the time they got to the theatre, the lobby was busy enough that no one noticed how low Harry’s hand was drifting on his hip and how close he attempted to pull him. Tom elbowed him in the ribs.

“Hands off,” he said, in part because there were actual people with cameras here and _someone_ had to look out for Harry’s reputation—really he should be paid as a personal assistant given all the work he did—and, in part because his friends were here somewhere and he was not about to get a reputation for being easy.

Speaking of his friends, Malfoy had clocked them and was now waving with far too much enthusiasm for this early in the evening. He strode over to them with the confidence of a man who knew he was so rich not even the law could touch him—not that Tom would ever complain about having a friend who threw money away like it was valentine chocolate on February fifteenth. 

After all, the problem with Malfoy was not his money, per se, rather it was money did to a man; it made him shallow and arrogant and lose all sense of fashion because he no longer had any honest friends that would tell him he looked like a dick. Today’s ensemble was no exception. 

Although the suit was probably designer, and probably cost more than Tom was making in a year, it was also fucking hideous. To be precise, Malfoy was in a lurid pink suit that would politely be described as daring, and, somewhat less politely, as the product of an unholy union between a highlighter and a peacock. Even Harry, who was hardly known for his coherent fashion choices, raised his brow and gave him a sideward glance. 

Malfoy didn’t seem to care though; perhaps he didn’t even notice—the opinions of people earning under ten million a year didn’t tend to concern him.

“Well, fuck me, Potter," Malfoy said, reaching them far too quickly and slapping his hand over Tom’s shoulder, “you didn’t tell everyone you were bringing dessert.” A compliment, at least in Malfoy’s eyes, but a backhanded one—his speciality. 

It was one of the many, _many_ reasons that he tried to keep his friends and his partners separate; Harry was playing right into though—as usual—and he clenched tighter at Tom's arm and pulled him back towards him. He glared at Malfoy, which was only going to encourage him.

"Nice to see you too, Malfoy," Harry said, all acid; fair enough, Malfoy _was_ insufferable, and they were only friends because Tom was required to have a social life and Malfoy suited his expensive tastes. 

The fact he’d managed to keep them apart for so long was frankly impressive—a big fucking congratulations to himself for that—but if Tom had had to put up with Harry grinding his teeth every single week because of Malfoy’s mere presence it would have really spoiled this entire affair. Fortunately for both of them and his own sanity, work didn’t agree with Malfoy’s delicate constitution—the only cure for which was luxury spas and high-society events. 

“Oh, don’t look like that, Potter,” he said, “wanting to fuck Riddle is like a rite of bloody passage—everyone _aspires_ to—” 

“And what would your fiancée say about your _aspirations?_ "

"I don't know,” Malfoy said, “what does your wife say?"

Tom sighed—this was _exactly_ why you couldn’t take Malfoy to nice places his family didn’t own—and Harry just stood there, one hand still wrapped around Tom’s arm, the other clenched into a fist. One day he might like to see Malfoy get what he deserved, he might even applaud whoever did it, but _not_ at a charity theatre event. Violent means were fine, but violent means with witnesses were absolutely not. 

And, _really_ , Harry should have learnt by now that, one, Malfoy was a prick, and two, he was a serial philanderer with quite the reputation for running his mouth. It was probably the reason that he managed to be perpetually engaged but never quite found the time in his schedule to make it down the aisle, and as a result, he went through fiancées at the rate hyperactive children went through cheap supermarket Pick N Mix. 

The current one—whose name no one had bothered to learn on the expectation that she’d be out of their lives in the next fortnight—followed the same pattern as all the others. She'd caught his eye when out somewhere in a skirt shorter than Lestrange's workday and that had sparked a whirlwind romance spent on luxury yachts and private beaches—sometimes it was a miracle Malfoy even managed to hold onto his English titles given how little time he spent in the country. 

Then, a month ago, they'd all been called up at an entirely unreasonable hour—two in the morning on a workday—to celebrate an entirely unreasonable engagement—two months they’d been together. To be perfectly honest, Tom had stopped counting the number of Malfoy’s engagement parties he went to after number three.

The problem was Malfoy’s engagements never lasted long—the last one being the record to beat at two months—and they always ended the same way. Malfoy would start having second thoughts about the whole commitment thing and, because he was a bad-influence, Lestrange would offer to take him out somewhere and, because Malfoy was entirely useless at fidelity, he would always agree, and then it would be up to the rest of them to draw straws to decide which poor sod had to go and tell the fiancée that it was over. 

Tom had only had to do it once, but the experience had still been one of the most awkward moments of his life—standing there with a girl he didn’t even know crying on his shoulder about how she really thought Malfoy was her soulmate, while the rest of his friends sipped cocktails and watched from the other side of the room. 

He wouldn’t be repeating the experience. 

Which all brought him back to his current predicament: Malfoy’s smug little face and Harry’s fist that would look just lovely against his jaw. If it had been Ginny, she’s have punched him before Tom could get a word in edgeways, but, unlike his wife, Harry could often be persuaded out of an altercation. 

And so, like a secretary who wanted to be a whole lot more, he leaned back into Harry’s body, Harry’s hands, Harry’s space and looked at him in the way that made everyone fucking melt. “You should probably make the rounds now,” Tom murmured, “so they’ll all leave us alone later.” 

There was far more promise in that statement that he was prepared to make good on, not only in front of all these people, but also a certain someone’s wife, but it tapped into the right part of Harry’s brain because he uncurled his fist and contented himself with an icy departure. Frankly, it was adorable that Harry got himself more worked up about one mildly annoying posho than he did about anyone on Britain’s most wanted list. 

“Don’t provoke him like that,” he said, as soon as Harry was out of earshot.

“Oh yes,” Malfoy said, not even looking in his direction, “we wouldn’t want to ruin your perfect pas de trois, now would we?”

“That’s not what that means, and you know it.” 

Malfoy grinned. “Would you rather I called it something else?” he said, and when Tom didn’t reply, he grinned wider. “I didn’t think so—now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find a new pair of opera glasses in the next…” he paused to check his watch—a surprisingly tasteful thing, “…twenty minutes, so that I don’t miss a bloody thing that’s going happen in your box.”

“You are _not_ doing that,” Tom said, attempting to grab at Malfoy and keep him right here so that they could negotiate this—not that anything was happening in that box, of course—he did, after all, have standards, Apparently, he didn’t grab quick enough though, because Malfoy was already darting away like a fly or maybe more accurately a mosquito through the crowd, towards some old woman waving opera glasses. 

This was _precisely_ why he didn’t want to come here in the first place.


	4. Chapter 4

To avoid Malfoy giving him any more unwarranted, not to mention unwanted, comments about his current arrangement, Tom left before he could come back. Instead, he circulated, mostly for everyone else’s benefit than his—it was nice to remind them what they were missing out on.

Unfortunately, though, his heart wasn’t in it and he didn’t really fancy faking a smile and simpering up to whoever was most likely to give him a promotion, nor did he want to integrate himself into Lestrange’s flirtatious conversation with some heiress old enough to be his mother. He wandered briefly over to Harry, but he was busy talking to some Ministry official about god know what—Tom didn’t hang around long enough to hear—which only left Ginny. 

He found her opposite the bar. More specifically, she was draped around her brother’s shoulder, sipping on a drink that was almost translucent and fizzing like a fourth year's potions experiment, whilst chatting to him and his wife. And didn’t she look good? That favourite white suit of her standing out against the sea of blue business suits—because everyone, apparently, wanted to look like a Yves Klein painting. 

Tom stood a little way away, watching—not staring because only starstruck schoolboys stared—Ginny as she waved her drink wildly—disagreeing with her brother about something—though, in the midst of the dispute she looked across the room. He was too far away to see if her eyes settled on him, but she certainly stopped what she was doing, her gaze lingering in his direction; he was never going to get tired of making a woman like Ginny stop and gape. 

Had Harry even told her that he’d be there? Knowing Harry, probably not. To make up for it, Tom raised his hand in the motion of a wave.

Ginny grinned and raised her glass as if to toast him, before draining the entire thing and loudly announcing to anyone who would listen that it was far too hot in here. If anyone wanted to protest the adequacy of the air-conditioning system, they weren’t given the time as, less than thirty seconds later, Ginny was stripping off her white jacket and getting people’s attention like she was a boxing day sofa sale and they’d been holding out all year for that Chesterfield. 

Ron actually averted his eyes until his wife patted him gently on the arm, reassuring him his sister had not just stripped nude for a hundred witnesses. It was almost a shame because Ginny looked good naked—almost though because he was already sharing Ginny with one other person and quite frankly that was enough. 

But although Ginny wasn’t naked, she was wearing that white bustier that left very little to anyone’s imagination—it was the one she’d bought the last time he’d been in Quiberon—the one she’d worn all evening and told him, in no uncertain terms, he was _not_ allowed to touch her in. Fucking tease. 

She knew how good it made her look, and that was probably why she’d worn it all evening with a pair of absolutely _indecent_ shorts; dancing around the kitchen and kissing him as he sat on one of the stools—his hands behind his back because she didn’t trust him—and burning the stir fry because Ginny, much to her mother’s despair, could not cook. 

Ginny didn’t give him much of an opportunity to look, though, because she caught sight of Harry and practically squealed.

Tom slid into the embers of the conversation beside Hermione, who offered him a curt welcome and Ron, who leant across to take his hand. He'd met them before—obviously—but that didn't mean they liked him outright; in fact, if given half the chance, Tom suspected Ron might just deck him for looking at his sister like that and Hermione would probably offer a similar socking for having his hands on Harry. A problem that could easily have been solved by Ginny and Harry being open about the nuances of their marriage—but he wasn’t about to go around critiquing an arrangement that suited him just fine, well, relatively fine. 

“Harry!” she said, giving him scarcely enough time to look up before she was launching herself into his arms, or rather launching herself _at_ him, and wrapping her limbs around his body like a limpet. For his part, Harry only staggered back a couple of feet, somehow managing to avoid falling over, or worse, stumbling into a waiter carrying those tiny hors d'oeuvres that nobody actually liked. 

Tom swallowed. When it was just him and Harry or him and Ginny, it was easy to pretend he really had them to himself, but when they were together he was firmly reminded they were the married one—he was just the spare part they liked to keep around for emergencies. And this was why he didn’t make a habit of coming to events that just made him feel like shit.

Logically, he should go, at least to the other side of the room where he wouldn’t have to look at them, but his legs were refusing to cooperate with his brain, and he was stuck looking at the only thing he couldn’t have. 

“Fuck, I missed you,” Ginny said, loud enough for anyone to hear as Harry spun her around in a circle and everyone was forced to watch them be idiots in love. Not that Tom was jealous, he got exactly what he wanted without having to endure all the sappy stuff—except maybe, and it was just a maybe mind you, he did want some of the sappy stuff. He wanted to be desired, to be needed, to be _missed_ when he’d left—he just wanted them to want him as much as he wanted them.

“And you brought a friend with you,” she continued, quieter this time, but her eyes darted over to Tom, so it was obvious she was talking about him—Ginny was many things, but subtle was not one of them. “And doesn’t he look good?”

“Well…” Harry said, looking down and flushing in that fucking adorable way that he always did when he did something nice for other people, “…I thought you deserved a treat,” he continued, “after that goal last week.” 

Oh, so Malfoy was right—he _was_ officially part of the dessert menu. A sweet-treat to be handed around like a pass-the-parcel—well, there were worse things to be. 

“I think you mean,” Ginny said, tapping him on the nose, “that we _both_ deserve a treat, after all, I heard that you closed that case yesterday.” 

Harry smiled, his hands on her waist as he kissed her again, and it was such a lingering, affectionate, thing that Tom didn’t know whether to be sick or be envious; he went with the former because it was easier than the latter. Fortunately, they remembered that the whole world didn’t appreciate prolonged public displays of affection, and separated—Harry going to greet his friends, as Ginny made a beeline for him. 

"Well, look at you," she said as she greeted him with a kiss on the cheek, leaning in close enough to leave traces of that perfume striped along his neck, "all dolled up like a witch on her first date.” 

“For your benefit of course,” he said, “do you like it?”

“ _Do I fucking like it?_ ” Ginny repeated, licking her lips and glancing over her shoulder at her brother and his wife—busy in conversation with Harry, “let me think,” she said, holding his eyes as her hand slid down the lapel of the jacket she bought him, and then even lower—Merlin, give him strength against Potters and their inability to keep their hands to themselves—to hook into his belt buckle. 

He wanted to dip his head and get his bearings, but if he’d learnt anything from being around Ginny for half of every week, it was that you should never back down from a challenge, so Tom held her eyes and returned her smile with one of his own. 

“You already know you look sexy as hell in that suit,” she said, pulling him closer by his belt, “but I’m kinda thinking of you _out_ of it, and that…” she bit her lip—more for show than anything else, “…well, let’s just say, that’s already getting me wet, Tommy.”

Tom swallowed, unlike her husband, Ginny didn’t bother dressing up her feelings, and despite himself, he could already feel the creeping heat under his collar—sticky and unpleasant and entirely predictable because Ginny had him fucking whipped. But Tom wasn’t one to give in easily—especially to something as intangible as his feelings—so he took a step forward, squaring up to her because it was fun to rile Ginny up. 

“Oh, I’m sure it does,” he said, at touch too much antagonism in his tone. 

“Are you getting mouthy with me?”

“I bet you’d like it if I was.”

Ginny licked her lips; if they were on their own, talking to her like that would get him on his knees with her hand on the back of his neck. But they weren’t on their own and more than enough people were watching, including Ron; he always kept half an eye on Tom, but right now it was more like two whole ones as he glanced between them. And wouldn’t it be easy to pull Ginny into a kiss and ruin her life? One kiss and they could be on every tabloid front page tomorrow and he could be the most famous man in Britain for a week.

He didn’t, but only because Ginny gave him _that_ look and began to walk away to somewhere where her brother couldn’t watch, beckoning Tom to follow her like he was some sort of dog—the fact he did was something he’d rather not examine. 

“So would you,” she said, once they were up at the bar, surrounded by people who weren’t watching them, “’cause you know exactly what it makes me want to do you, don’t you?” she said.

Tom pushed his luck. “Remind me.” 

In her heels Ginny was about the same height as him and she used it to lean in far too close, her mouth brushing his ear and her hands skimming over his waist. “when you talk to me like _that_ ,” she said, “it makes me wanna run you _ragged_.”

And wasn’t that an idea? If Harry hadn't been here—invited him here at that—Tom might just have taken her up on that offer with immediate effect. But Harry was here, and that opened a whole other avenue, including words on the back of his tongue that he shouldn’t say; then again, when had a few social standards ever stopped him saying anything? 

“What if,” Tom said, resting his elbows on the counter and leaning back against the bar—the picture of indifference, even as his heart turned itself inside out, “your husband gets there first?”

“He won’t,” Ginny said firmly. 

“That sounds like a challenge.”

“You want it to be a challenge, Tommy?” she said, “you wanna see which one of us can get you squirming in your seat first? Because that’s something I can get on board with,”

“Could you now?” 

“Careful,” she said, pushing right up against him; the counter pushing into his spine and making him suffer for love; her right hand drifting below his belt—apparently it was going to be a rough night—as her left gripped the bar, “you know where that sort of talk is going to get you.” 

“Do I?” he said because he couldn’t resist; because he liked that grin of hers; because he liked her up in his face with her fingers tracing over his zipper.

Ginny glanced around her and Tom knew that look—it was the one that said she was about to do something shameless, something outrageous, something that required him to be very well acquainted with the laws surrounding outraging public decency, which she frequently violated, by the way. She smiled and moved close enough that no one would see what she was doing. Tom swallowed and tried to remember those breathing exercises corporate made you learn to avoid liability in stress-at-work lawsuits. 

It didn’t help though, because he was already hard—and of course, he was, who wouldn’t be when they had Ginny fucking Potter’s hand pressed against their dick? To make it worse, because she loved to see him squirm, Ginny gave him a slow squeeze; Tom’s stomach rolled, and he dropped his head forward. He probably shouldn’t have pushed it. 

“What’s wrong, Tommy?” she said, giving him another squeeze, until he could feel the tight prickle of arousal crawling up his neck and he was pushing his hips forward, pressing into her hand, “did you forget your place?” 

He raised his head just enough to glare properly at Ginny, biting his tongue to stop himself snapping at her—gnashing his teeth—because she knew how to wind him up and he’d fallen for it again.

“But, as much as I’d love to get you off right here…” she said, pulling him against her and murmuring right into his ear. In an attempt to distract himself from how fucking filthy this all was, Tom looked over her shoulder. He spotted Harry about the same time that Harry spotted him, and from the faint blush that coloured the tips of Harry’s ears, he knew _exactly_ what his wife was doing. It felt like cheating—like shopping at the supermarket across the road from your usual and knowing all the time that the cashier who always served you was watching you and judging you. He didn’t feel guilty though—that wasn’t in his nature—just incomplete because whatever this was, he really wanted Harry to be part of it too.

But before he could examine that thought too deeply, Harry turned away to talk to someone else, and Ginny eased her hands off him and stepped back to a far more appropriate distance. “…I think I’ll save that for the performance,” she finished. “Now, though, go buy yourself a drink—my treat,” she said, tucking a tenner into his pocket, “and I’ll see you later.” And with that she just walked off, leaving him sagging against the bar like a soggy stick of cotton candy.

“Ooh, she keeps you on your toes, doesn’t she?” Malfoy said, spinning around on his barstool like some flamboyant Bond villain ready to ruin his life.


End file.
